


All Aboard

by Octobig



Series: Aralene's Adventures in Rivellon [1]
Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games), Divinity: Original Sin 2
Genre: Affection, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Friendships, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Spoilers for all quests until the second act
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 02:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13847829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octobig/pseuds/Octobig
Summary: When Aralene is taken to Fort Joy, she has nothing but the Source Collar and the clothes on her back.No family, no fond memories. A past and a present filled with death, and a murky future lurking around the corner.But there are new people, odd and endearing and dangerous, and new battles to fight. It reminds her of the fact that life is worth living if you fill it with love. And soon, she realizes that a set of Godwoken lost at sea make for a pretty solid new family.[Or alternatively: Aralene makes a lot of friends and hugs them through their difficult times. They hug her back.]





	All Aboard

**Author's Note:**

> Aralene is a female elf Godwoken with the [MYSTIC] and [SCHOLAR] background tags. 
> 
> As far as skills go, a Summoner with a dash of Aerothurge and Hydrosophist.

There are many differences between the races of humans, lizards, dwarves, and elves. Too many to count.

Some of them true, some of them exaggerated, and most of them varied and diverse. Just like the people themselves.

Before the Deathfog, Aralene had her own tribe; her own Ancestor Tree, her own people. The land and the forests were green and vast, and the love and affection she shared with her kin were just as all-encompassing.

They interacted little with the outside world, shielding themselves from other settlements and people. Anything to keep each other safe and sheltered. But all of that is gone now.

Aralene still tastes the ash as she thinks of it; curls her fingers into the barren earth, watching the lifeless bodies of her loved ones. Poisonous air clogging her throat, filling her lungs with decay.

She could not even taste their flesh to take their memories. All of it tainted; a branch broken and snapped, a root shriveled up and rotten.

She is the last remaining branch of the old tree of her former life.

In her companions’ eyes, she sees their desires. What they wish for beyond the fate of Rivellon; beyond what any Divine could evoke, beyond what their gods could ever gift them. Freedom, knowledge, riches, vengeance, and even more.

But most of all, the power to determine their own destinies.

She understands them, of course. But beneath all the layers of her own wants, Aralene finds that all she really wishes for is a new tribe of her own. People she can love and cherish, and who will make her bloom in turn.

It’s been so long since she _belonged_ somewhere.

(And trees ought to have proper roots, really. If all humans can do is think up tree-related insults to yell at elves for no particular reason, the least Aralene can do is live up to the hype.)

She starts to feel the stirrings of it as they reach the Reaper’s Coast.

What started as a tentative deal to simply help each other escape Fort Joy has grown into something bigger; something more tangible. They are still a ragtag bunch, her newfound friends, but something more starts to shape and hold them together than just the escape from the Divine Order.

More than Source and their own gods trying to pit them against each other.

So Aralene keeps refusing Tir-Cendelius every time she sees him - whether it is in the Hall of Echoes or in her dreams - and sets out to treat her friends the way she would treat her very own.

For they are all weary, in their own way, as lost as they were upon the seas before they hit the shores of Reaper’s Isle.

And Aralene wishes to comfort them.

From her own traditions, she knows that physical affection and touch are important.

In her tribe, you were never far from another. Beds were shared, bodies warm and snug, and grooming was best done together. Cuddling and leaning into another was common practice. A way to share life and to combat loneliness.

So when Lohse stumbles back onto the deck of the Lady Vengeance after a visit to the Meistr in Driftwood, eyes all wrong and dark, Aralene walks up to her. Links their arms, as Lohse has done with them before, and pulls her along to the railing.

“Look at me,” says Lohse, pulling at the white lock in her hair and blinking her gray eyes at Aralene. “It’s getting worse.”

Aralene touches her cheek. “I will braid your hair,” she replies, voice soft.

“Oh,” Lohse says, blinking up at her, and the thick veins around her eye sockets disappear. “Is that - is that a thing? An anti-demon kind of thing?”

Her eyes go from gray back to pale blue.

Aralene smiles as she sits down upon the deck, patting the empty space between her legs. “It is a friend thing,” she says.

Lohse, sweet and trusting, sits down between Aralene’s thighs, still looking a little baffled. “Well, it’s a good thing I like _you_ ,” she says, drawing her knees to her chest, “and that I like friend things.”

“And that you have a rat’s nest upon your head,” Aralene says fondly, brushing her fingers through Lohse’s red hair.

(She pointedly ignores Eddie, the cargo hold rat, who pipes up and says: “Hey! Mine’s cleaner than that!”.)

Lohse just laughs and leans her head on her knees, allowing Aralene free reign with her hair.

It’s mostly quiet between them, which is new with Lohse. She’s always talking to fill the silence; clever stories or funny play-acting. Aralene is unsure if that is her personality, or just a way to drown the voices out. To keep herself preoccupied so that she is not alone in the void with that _thing_.

But now, there is enough to distract even in the silence.

Aralene is meticulous in the way she combs through Lohse’s hair with her hands, knotting out the tangles and smoothing out her wavy strands. She braids and re-braids certain parts just because she can, humming an old childhood tune.

“Is that elvish?” Lohse asks, voice a little sleepy.

“Hmm-mm,” Aralene hums back in the affirmative. She’s drawing back a couple of strands of Lohse’s hair from the front to create her signature hairdo, but with some more elaborate braiding worked in.

“Does it have actual words?” Lohse asks next. “Because, hey, I’m a performer, and that would be cool to - to perform. To keep it alive.”

Aralene’s chest warms at the thought. “It does,” she says. “I will teach you them. I can even write them down; my singing voice is… How do you say it?”

She twists the two braids back, white and red mixing. “Ah,” she says then, finding the word. “Poor.”

That makes Lohse chuckle. “Not everyone can have _all_ the talents. And you’re pretty talented with other things yourself.”

She turns back partially when Aralene taps her on the back, running one hand through her hair. “Is it done? My hair feels so smooth!”

She grins up at Aralene, all the darkness from her face. “Thanks, you’re a hun.”

Aralene smiles back, her knees still on either side of Lohse.

Lohse watches her face carefully, her expression morphing into a more serious one. “Hey,” she says, “is it okay if we sit for a while longer, like this? ‘Cause I do think it’s an anti-demon thing. I mean, it’s very… quiet, all of a sudden.”

Aralene nods. “Of course.”

They don’t say a lot, and simply watch the waves together. All that they hear is the sound of the sea, the gulls, and the creaking wood of the Lady Vengeance. And if Lohse leans back just a little more, her back to Aralene’s front and her shoulder tipping into the inside of Aralene’s arm, neither of them say anything about it.

Fane notices, of course. Always taking notes and skulking around the bulkhead.

Lohse takes her leave eventually, thanking Aralene and going below deck for a change of dress and a game of cards with Sebille. Those two have grown closer, too, over the duration of their journey.

“Is that a grooming ritual?” Fane inquires with a nonchalant air, walking over to where Aralene is standing. “I wish to make proper note of it.”

He stands next to her, arms clasped behind his back. On the Lady Vengeance, he never uses his mask, so when Aralene turns to face him, she is met with the stark white of his skull.

“It is not so easily defined,” she says, smiling down at him. “I wanted to offer Lohse comfort and affection. She deserves it.”

Fane nods. “Bonding, then,” he offers, “alright. I shall jot that down. It is an interesting way to give comfort.” He pauses, clearing a throat he no longer has.

Old habits die hard.

“There is a tendency in many animals to use grooming as bonding, I have noticed. It appears it is no less so for you,” he continues, though something unasked hangs between them. “Physical touch, and all that.”

Aralene raises an eyebrow at him, looking him up and down pensively.

He lifts his palms towards her in defense instantly. “I could not feel it,” he says, tone a little sharp. “Besides, I have no hair.”

“I could polish your gemstone,” Aralene offers.

Fane answers too quickly. “It would not amount to much. My gemstone is naturally gleaming. And as I said, I would not feel it.”

Aralene raises an eyebrow. “I could use Source.”

Fane tugs at his collar, and it doesn’t take much to convince him. He shifts, from one bony foot to the other, and nods slowly.

“… I am not opposed to a social and/or Source experiment,” comes out reluctantly as he looks away from her. “It would be interesting to learn more of your species’ habits.”

Aralene hides her laughter in the dip of her head, not wanting to offend him. She very much likes Fane; he’s a scholar, like her, lost in a world he doesn’t know. But sometimes, she thinks he would do well to be more upfront about his true needs and wants.

She concentrates, gathering up a charge of Source in her palm; spreads it over her fingers like a thin glove.

“What,” croaks Fane, “what will you be doing?”

She holds up her hand. “I will touch your cheek,” she says, “to see whether it works.”

“Bone,” Fane corrects her. “Cheek _bone_. I no longer possess a cheek.”

Aralene leans in and slowly, carefully, brushes her thumb over the edge of Fane’s elaborate cheekbone. The one she first thought carved, before she knew he was a different species entirely.

Fane tightens his jaw against the sensation, empty eye-sockets deep and black before her.

“Is there anything - ”

Fane reaches out his hand towards hers, catching her fingers. “I feel it,” he interrupts, voice tight. “It is not - not like it was before. But it is… _something_. An echo of flesh.”

Aralene curls her hand around his, the white bone of his fingers easily disappearing in her grasp. She conjures up another thin film of Source over the palm of her other hand, and cups the side of his head with it.

Fane shudders at the spark of that touch, tipping his head forward with a sigh. The precious gemstone on his forehead clonks against Aralene’s chin.

It is as if his entire being suddenly deflates; gone is the all-knowing scholar, the all-powerful undead.

Here is just a man who lost everything.

“This is rather nice,” he says quietly into the space between them.

Aralene smiles, pressing a kiss to the white of his skull. “It is,” she confirms.

The waves crash against the Lady Vengeance, leaving a scattering of mist behind them. A few stray drops settle on Aralene and Fane, and there is nothing around them except sea and sky.

“I miss my family,” Fane murmurs. “They feel… so distant. Long gone. To be Eternal…”

He stops, unable to finish his sentence.

Aralene wraps her arms around him in response, tucking his head under her chin, and Fane lets her.

She doesn’t have enough Source left to cover the entirety of her body, but she tries to focus most of it on the parts that touch Fane. Her front and her arms.

He sighs as she does so; a sigh without an exhale of breath, but rather a heaving of his shoulders and a tired press of his head into her tunic. Aralene finds herself wondering how long ago it was that someone simply touched him for the sake of touching him.

“This is a good bonding ritual,” he says into the fabric of Aralene’s cloak. He manages to sound like his curtly, polite self. “We should preform it more often.”

Now Aralene does laugh; a soft sort of chuckle over the dome of Fane’s white skull. “I agree.”

He stays in her hold even longer than Lohse did.

 

* * *

 

Sebille is always high-strung; a prowling predator ready to strike. Though she spends more time in the company of the others than she did before, she remains a bit closed-off and recoils easily.

Aralene understands.

Sebille also feels more at ease in Aralene’s and Lohse’s company; perhaps because the two of them are women, or perhaps because they share some of the same traumas. Chained and taunted - all of them have experienced stages of not being free.

The three of them spend time together without the rest of their companions; playing cards, rolling dice, singing and talking while they mend their armor and weapons.

And with Lohse, the hair-braiding has become a daily thing for them.

They don’t even use words, now - in the mornings, during breakfast, Lohse will plonk herself down somewhere in Aralene’s vicinity, and Aralene will start to brush and braid. Nobody thinks it strange.

Sometimes also when it’s just the three of them, like now.

Lohse is scribbling down words to her newest creation - a rowdy tavern song meant to incite and inspire. She sits with her back to Aralene, leaning on her knee with one arm. Aralene is carding her fingers through Lohse’s hair, working on an intricate up-do.

So far, she’s worked a large set of braids all the way around Lohse’s head, building a crown.

“I wish I had flowers to put in them,” she murmurs.

Lohse knocks her pen against Aralene’s knee. “That would be something, wouldn’t it? Imagine me, all prettied up.”

“You two are awful,” Sebille says. “I’d think we have better things to do than writing songs and braiding hair.” She narrows her eyes. “Will you be clamoring for world peace, next?”

Lohse shrugs, unaffected by Sebille’s sharpness, as always. “That _would_ make Rivellon a better place, ‘Bille.”

Up from where she’s sitting on a barrel, Sebille rolls her eyes. “Don’t call me that,” she says, but there is no malice in it. She drags a hand through the strands of hair falling in front of her face, and her fingers get caught in their tangles.

All three of them notice.

Lohse raises her eyebrow in a somewhat smug, ‘I told you so’ kind of manner, Sebille’s tries to keep her expression under tight control, and Aralene simply pats Lohse on the shoulder.

“You are done,” she says. “Let me do Sebille next.”

“Don’t do me the dishonor of an elaborate braid-crown,” Sebille snaps, cheeks heated, “especially not one with flowers.”

Aralene tilts her head to the side. “We have licked each other’s arms,” she states simply, as if that should explain it.

(It does. She knows Sebille, and Sebille knows her. There will be no harm nor too fancy hair-does between the two of them.)

A look passes, the air charged, and then Lohse laughs, breaking the spell.

“Good gods,” she snorts, “it’s such a thing with you elves, isn’t it? A weird thing! But I like it. It’s a nice sort of weird.”

She stands up, gathering her notebook and dusting off her skirt. “I’ll leave you to your elfy shenanigans. Don’t eat each other!”

“Ugh,” says Sebille, covering Lohse’s retreat with a groan of annoyance and disgust. But she does hop off of her barrel, and scuffles reluctantly over towards Aralene.

She still looks defiant; angry, even.

“You do not have to,” Aralene starts, “if something about this bothers you.”

“No,” Sebille says, cutting her off. “I rather think I should take you up on your offer. It’d be good for me. I know this, just as much as I know I’ll cut the Master’s throat.”

Aralene regards her and nods. “I trust you.”

Sebille returns her nod with a slow inclination of her head. Slowly, she bends down to the floor to sit. “My body just doesn’t know it yet,” she adds, voice softer.

Theirs is a jagged, tightly-wound experience.

Sebille is wounded, badly, in and out. She doesn’t know how to show her vulnerability, and her survival instinct screams at her not to. But she wants to, and so Aralene tries to give her that - lets Sebille brush and braid her own hair, first. That way, Sebille is in control, and Aralene is the vulnerable one.

It helps.

“I enjoy this,” Sebille says, winding the strands together. “It’s more calming than I’d expect.”

Aralene smiles, unable to see Sebille’s face. “I feel the same. Thank you. Your fingers are quite deft.”

“Not just for needlework, hmm?” Sebille jokes gently.

In the end, Aralene never braids Sebille’s hair. But she does help heal some of the scarring on her arms and fingers with her magic, and they sit together - side pressed to side, leg against leg.

“You’re doing a good thing,” Sebille says, voice quiet, “trying to take care of us.”

Aralene shifts, feeling the focus switch to her; it’s intense, to be scrutinized by Sebille’s keen, yellow-honey eyes.

Sebille raises an eyebrow.

“What, you think I didn’t notice? With Lohse finding you for hugs and new hairstyles?” she asks pointedly. “Fane, touching his hand to you in passing every time he walks by?”

Aralene sighs. “… I did not think that. But I must confess that it is for my own benefit as much as it is for yours.”

Sebille’s face falls. “You’re lonely.”

“Yes.”

Aralene’s throat feels too tight, clogging up with grief and emptiness. She twists her fingers together in her lap.

“I have vague memories of those days,” Sebille murmurs. “Erased by my time in the Master’s care. Perhaps I shall uncover them one day, but for now… there are mere snippets.”

Aralene swallows thickly, pain eating her up like a vine uncurling in her stomach.

“Of enclaves in the trees,” Sebille continues. “Of shared joy and pain. Of always having someone near. Something scared me about it, and yet…”

She turns back to Aralene. “This is where you came from, isn’t it? Are all of them dead?”

Aralene sees their faces flash before her mind’s eye as they were before it all happened, reflected in Sebille’s gaze.

“Yes,” she says on the exhale of a breath, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

Sebille’s face is open and sad, and she cups Aralene’s cheek. “My sweet girl,” she says, voice breaking, “I’m so sorry.”

In the end, Aralene isn’t sure who opens their arms first.

But she ends up in Sebille’s embrace anyway, face pressed into her neck while she cries out her pain, staining Sebille’s armor with tears. Sebille keeps her arms tight around Aralene, mouth briefly pressed against her temple; sharing her grief in a way that only elves can.

She starts humming a tune.

It is the same one that Aralene hummed when she first braided Lohse’s hair.

She tightens her own grip on Sebille, and murmurs a heartfelt ‘thank you’ against her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

After Aralene’s breakdown, it continues, and she is happier for it.

There is more affection between her, Lohse, Sebille, and Fane, now - and she even spies Lohse and Sebille exchanging more casual touches. It feels like a relief, to be able to share this with them, and to have this level of comfort with the members of her new family.

For that is how she sees them.

Her wish slowly being granted, and no Tir-Cendelius - or any god - needed.

The Red Prince is the first to state something about it, openly and plainly, like he is wont to do.

When Aralene returns after another mission towards the Black Pits, saving a villager from a certain fiery doom, she finds him in front of her quarters on the Vengeance. Arms crossed and gaze stern.

“There is something happening between you and the others,” he says haughtily, “and I wish to be included.”

Aralene suppresses her amused smile. “Oh?” she asks innocently, brushing past him while she takes off her cloak and hangs it on the rack near the door.

The Prince huffs. “I do not know whether it is by magic, by Source, or by pure seduction, but something is infinitely improving your moods. I will have you know that I am quite capable in the bedroom myself and wish to partake in your games.”

That _does_ send Aralene in a fit of laughter, and she clutches at her belly. “Oh,” she eventually manages to get out, “we are not - not like that. There is no - ”

“Fornicating?” he offers, looking offended. “There is _a lot_ of touching that goes beyond the realm of equals and ventures either into the territory of a slave tending their master or the dealings of bedroom games.”

Aralene looks at him oddly, laughter sinking fast. “Neither is at play. There is more to life than slavery and sex.”

He stares at her, a little aghast. “You mean to say that you are all just merely being _friends_?”

She nods. “Yes. I cannot make more or less of it.”

A somewhat awkward silence befalls them as the Prince looks about, not knowing what to say, except for: “Oh. I see.”

Another pause before he adds, “I misunderstood in that case.”

Aralene reaches out, touching his arm. “You did. But you would do well to start seeing our world and its people in it as something more than just subordinates or people who are more powerful than you.”

He doesn’t step away from her touch but regards her with a surprised look in his eyes.

“I should not have to tell you that slavery is an unjust thing,” she adds, softer, “and that you should not play with it to the extent that you do.”

“It is our culture,” he offers up.

Aralene’s eyes snap to his. “That does not make it right. And besides, if you consider yourself so powerful, are you not powerful enough to change things?”

The Red Prince deflates a little under her touch, looking away. “I shall think upon your words,” he says, turning on his heels. His tail whips over the wooden planks.

He pauses as he stands on the stairs that lead to the upper deck, face hesitant. “Do you consider me to be your friend?”

She regards him with a serious look in her eyes. “Do you consider me yours?”

The Prince looks down as he speaks. “… Yes, I do.”

Aralene smiles at him. “Then I shall be. As you shall be mine.”

“It sounds strange, to be someone’s without there being…” he starts, not finishing. “Never mind my wandering thoughts. I shall see you upstairs for dinner.”

He leaves quickly, and Aralene hopes with all of her heart that he will get used to the feeling.

 

* * *

 

Beast comes of his own accord.

He is keeps easily to his own; joining the crowd without ever over-sharing or showing too much of himself. Enough to placate, not enough to get to know him well. Someone like that easily slips through without you noticing.

The kind of people who tell their tales to distract, much like how Beast’s name separates him from his past.

But if anything, the dwarf is kind, and tries to find that kindness in others still.

“I’ve been seein’ what yer doin’, lass,” he says on one colder evening, leaning against the railing while he stands next to Aralene. “Yer doing good things. I like that.”

Aralene keeps her gaze on the sea. “I am sorry about the queen,” she says softly.

He shrugs his hefty shoulders. “None of us knew,” he answers. “Some of us didn’t _want_ to know. That’s jus’ the way it is, sometimes.”

“Do you miss your old life?” Aralene asks.

Beast’s eye is blue as the sea as he gazes up at her. “Do I? I don’t rightly know.”

He falls quiet for a moment. “I was a bastard, and I always will be. Ye don’t just forget what that means. What they did to you ‘cause of it. It ain’t right.”

She reaches out and touches his shoulder, resting her hand there in comfort. “Those things,” Aralene starts, because this topic is a difficult one, even for her, “they are being shipped towards Arx.”

Their eyes meet, and Beast waits patiently for her to say it. He knows it’s important.

“The fog,” Aralene manages, tearing her gaze from his to look at the stars above them.

Beast nods, chin dipping to his chest below his beard. “ _Yeah_ ,” he says, the word like rough timber. “I can’t let her do this, lass. Not after what happened to your people. Not after what happened to mine.”

“I will aid you,” Aralene murmurs, squeezing his shoulder.

Beast looks small; tired, even, as he looks back up to her. “I know. And that’s mighty fine of ye.”

One of his hands comes up to rest on the small of her back, warm and broad.

“They always said ye were like trees,” he continues. “Living wood.”

Aralene smiles. “We are.”

Beast chuckles, low and soft. “Like stone, too. As resilient as the earth from which ye came.”

“Our roots go deep.”

They look at the night sky together; moon rising above the water, stars scattered in familiar constellations. Beast shows her a few with the broad sweep of his arm, and tells her how he uses them to navigate the waters of Rivellon.

How stars can be your safety, your compass, and point you back home.

Aralene is fascinated with them; through the thick canopy of trees at her former home, the stars were not as visible during the night as she sees them now, on the High Seas. She drinks in Beast’s knowledge of them eagerly as he points out the constellations for her; draws lines between the stars so she can follow them with her eyes.

When it gets colder in the dark of the night, they sit down in a hammock together that Ifan had strung up a few nights before. Aralene wraps her cloak around Beast’s shoulders.

“Have you ever thought about what you will do when all of this is over?” she asks him, leaning her chin atop his head.

Beast grumbles a bit. “No,” he offers. “At first, I thought I’d sail the seas forever, y’know. But now…”

He boops her nose. “Now that this ol’ seadog has all of ye, perhaps there’s more to be done than sailin’.”

“I will stay with all of you for as long as you wish me to,” Aralene says, digging her fingers into a hidden pocket of her cloak.

She pulls out a bead made of green glass, carved with a curling of roots.

That makes Beast laugh as soon as he sees it. “Is that for me beard, lass?”

“Yes,” Aralene confirms, dropping the small treasure in his palm. “I do not know whether it is of elven making; there is no flesh for me to pull a memory from. But I thought it might remind you of me.”

Beast’s fingers are quick as he braids the little thing in, standing out amongst the gold of his other trinkets. “Yer right,” he says proudly, petting his beard. “It will. And it’ll send me the right way home if I need it, I reckon.”

They sit there for a while longer, quietly enjoying each other’s presence.

“And what will ye do when this is all over?” Beast asks then.

Aralene sighs; the deep rush of it making her shoulders heave up and down. “I do not know,” she says quietly. “I wanted… For the longest while, I wanted to build a new home for the elves. My home. But I am not too sure about that now.”

Beast nods. “I get that, yeah.”

“The world is a complicated place,” she continues. “I will need to face that I might never find my place in it.”

His hand is solid around hers. “You have us, now. That ought to make a difference.”

Aralene smiles. “It does. Another way home.”

“Another way home,” Beast repeats.

They fall asleep in the hammock together.

 

* * *

 

Ifan is different than the rest of them.

For a lone wolf, he’s certainly the most wildly affectionate, as if he’s still searching for a pack to bestow his love upon. It’s been natural for Aralene to look to him as a friend.

Their friendhips develops like a living thing, blooming early during their travels alongside Aralene’s interactions with Lohse.

Ifan can switch from gruff fondness to striking intimidation in a heartbeat. With the way he’s always carrying food and snacks, distributing them among the party, you would think him a mother hen. And yet, the scars upon his forearms and knuckles speak boldly of his life as a ruthless mercenary.

But he’s big and loving, and Aralene is no stranger to being swept up in his bear hugs. She just has happily returns them, taking in his animalistic scent as she clings to his shoulders with a laugh.

No late night talks or bonding sessions necessary. They just _are_ , together.

But then all of it breaks, cracks, into an ugly, bloody thing. The two of them wild animals at war.

When she discovers it was _him_ who released the Deathfog.

 _Him_ , the one who made it all possible. Who trusted his leader, his Divine, to such an extent that he never second-guessed his orders. Never even _tried_ to discover what the device he brought to their forests was for.

Just took it, like he was commanded to do, to the heart of the wood, and never even followed up on that lingering doubt. That question marred on his heart that asked him if he’d done the right thing, and that he’d never answered. That asked if there hadn’t been more to uncover.

(And yes, there had been more to uncover - mountains of dead bodies, thin limbs strewn over one another, and a sky turned ash. No more living things, nothing not tainted by poison and hate. The genocide of an entire people because one human man could not defeat his enemy.)

When he discovers it, Ifan howls.

Ifan cries.

His wolf appears by his side, and the pain and tears are raw and bursting. His face twists in pain as he grasps for his heart.

But Aralene finds that in that moment, she doesn’t care. Can’t recall how she cares for him - can only see the bodies he inadvertently caused to fall. And all she wants is for him to suffer _more_.

She thinks it, and the words immediately drop from her mouth, venomous. “You took my family away from me.”

Sebille’s hand is on her arm, trying to soothe her. It doesn’t work, and she advances on Ifan and his wolf.

Aralene has never been this angry.

Ifan stares at her, empty and aghast. “Aralene,” he says, voice raw from his tears, “Aralene, I didn’t - I didn’t _know_!”

“You killed my people,” Aralene accuses, her voice a deafening whip, and she sweeps her arm towards her back in a wide gesture.

She feels them there, their presence; standing behind her, ghosts of her past, with their faces bloodied and mangled, and lungs blackened by breathing Deathfog. An army of elves, a wood ungrowing, a seed that’s been sequestered.

Ifan’s wolf growls, teeth bared and hackles raised.

“Please,” Ifan begs, “I didn’t know. I grew up with your kind. I’d never think of - ”

With one snap of her Source-covered fingers, she sends his wolf back to the spirit world, dispelled.

Beast touches the fingers of her other hand. “Lass,” he says, firm but gentle, “I don’t think this is a good idea. Perhaps ye should - ”

But there is no should.

There is only blinding rage.

Aralene twists her fist in Ifan’s shirt, dragging him up by it and pressing him back against the rock wall behind him. His green eyes are wide, shocked, and his cheeks and beard are stained with tears. He gasps, pointed teeth against his open mouth.

 _Weak_ , she thinks, and she’s not sure whether she says it or not.

Ifan’s feet are not touching the ground.

“Feel it,” she demands, and she presses her other arm against the seam of his mouth.

He chokes, one hand coming up to clutch at her fist.

Aralene presses harder, and his teeth draw blood on her underarm, trickling down their front. She narrows her eyes, her vision dimmed by the flow of her own tears.

“You… you _human_ ,” she says, the word an insult while she keeps her arm where it is. “You should be able to feel it. You should be able to take _my_ memory, at least.”

A flash of recognition in Ifan’s eyes.

( _He understands._ )

He closes his hand around the fist she has in her shirt, his fingers gentle, and he weeps.

“I was there,” Aralene sobs, feeling her strength suddenly ebb away from her, and she slowly lowers him to the ground. “I was there,” she repeats, “and I could not take theirs.”

Ifan exhales a deep breath as she tears her arm away, sinking down to her knees.

“They are lost to me as they are lost to time,” she cries, pressing her bloodied arm to her eyes. “They will never grow. They will never be honored.”

Ifan sinks down next to her, arms wrapping around her form, his cheek pressed to hers.

“I could not save them,” Aralene chokes, and the next sob that wrecks her frame is so heavy that she can’t even speak. “And you were there, and neither could you.”

Ifan’s arms grow tighter, vice grips around her shoulders. “I’m so, so sorry,” he rasps into her hair.

The wolf returns, curling around her form like its master.

Aralene wraps her arms around Ifan, burying her face in his shoulder. “It feels like failure,” she says, hiccuping through her sobs. “It feels like I should have done more.”

“You couldn’t,” answers Ifan, holding the back of her head and carding his fingers through her hair. “You couldn’t. But don’t say you didn’t honor them.”

She pulls back, noting the firmness in his voice.

He tightens his jaw, offering her a weak smile. “You did it the human way. By living through. By telling me about them. Give me their names, and we’ll build a monument.”

Aralene stares at him, tears clinging to her lashes.

“It’s not much,” he says, softer, “but it’ll be something. And we can find you a new home, other elves. You can share what you know with them. I’ll join you.”

She swallows. “Ifan,” she says.

He starts crying once more, holding onto her tight. “I didn’t know,” he repeats hoarsely, “I didn’t _know_.”

She pets his hair in turn, and forgets how long they sit there, guarded by his wolf.

Some things are forged by trial and fire.

Their friendship withstands their newfound knowledge, and grows stronger. Different. The easy affection between them now with more meaning as Ifan works to learn more of her culture, more of her old tribe.

He wants to know at least some of the people he helped kill, and Aralene wants to share what little memories she has.

It creates kinship.

And it makes Aralene feel that she could survive anything, if she can survive this.

 

* * *

 

“It’s a supposed to be a proper plait, lass,” Beast says, sounding a little exasperated as Lohse tangles the string up. “Ye shouldn’t overlay it like ye do a simple braid. It’s something _different_.”

Lohse seems unaffected by his comments. “Well, it does look a whole lot different from the ones in your beard, I’ll reckon,” she says, voice still cheerful. “Is it the beads? They do give it a better look overall.”

Beast presses a hand to his forehead, massaging the bridge of his nose. “It’s ‘cause yer messing up the strands there, love. The beads don’t matter, not at this stage.”

Aralene steps closer, and Lohse looks up, a beaming smile on her face. “Hello!” she says happily. “Look here. I’m practicing plaits for your hair. It’d look so pretty with them in it, don’t you think? And you’re always doing mine.”

Aralene fondly touches Lohse’s cheek. “Thank you. They look lovely.”

Beast throws her a look.

“Lohse is trying,” Aralene chides gently, and Beast just shakes his head.

“Tryin’,” he mutters, “tryin’. That jus’ not it! I’ve seen little dwarven young ‘uns do better ones.”

Lohse rolls her eyes. “Yeah, and they grew up learning. I’ve got butterfingers and a demon inside my head. Have some patience with me, will you?”

Fane walks by, a book in hand. “It helps to practice with an actual reality,” he says with somewhat of a haughty air, not even looking up as he flips the page. “Even I can attest that theory only gets one so far.”

“Are ye suggestin’ I let Lohse mess up me beard?” Beast asks, incredulous.

Fane shrugs, moving towards the doors that lead down into the hold. He waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, or any type of hair you mortal creatures are so especially fond of.”

“Mess up,” Lohse parrots, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “ _Mess up_.”

She sounds thoroughly offended now.

Fane is about to disappear below deck, and Beast and Lohse stare at one another, eyes narrowed.

Aralene shakes her head at the two of them, amused, and gracefully sits down before them. Sweeps the length of her hair back over her shoulders, and waits.

“Fane,” she says gently, “come sit with me. Tell me about the new book you found.”

It takes a few moments before they all reshuffle what they were doing.

Some time ago, Aralene wouldn’t have asked, and they wouldn’t have considered.

But now, Beast is curling his fingers through Aralene’s hair, showing Lohse how to make a proper dwarven plait.

Lohse, enthusiastic as ever, calls it a ‘pirate plait’ because she likes the way the words mesh together, and Beast doesn’t disregard her suggestion.

Fane sits down next to Aralene, close, his robe overlapping her cloak. He thumbs the pages of his book, going off into a tangent about history and the application of Source for magical experiments.

His gemstone sparkles in the light of the sun, and it makes Aralene smile.

They argue some more about Source powers and Windego’s little stunt while Beast and Lohse continue braiding Aralene’s hair. (There is plenty of cursing involved on both sides.)

Ifan soon joins them in the sun, bringing food; _of course_ Ifan would. His grin is warm and broad as he hands them bowls of stew from below deck, and sits down on Aralene’s opposite side.

She sees a hint of the wolf in him as he winks, toothy and comfortable. He settles against her, one knee bumping hers, and raps his knuckles against her thigh as another fond hello.

Sebille and the Red Prince come up from the other side of the Lady Vengeance, near her lovely dragon figurehead. They’re exchanging quips, none too kindly but comfortable enough for both of them.

They spar sometimes, Sebille’s quick daggers against the Red Prince’s heavy two-hander, and it’s always a good match. Aralene is unsure why they agreed to practice and how it came about, until she catches something about the Prince wanting to help Sebille be more knowing around lizard fighting styles.

(Sebille had asked, her honeyed eyes narrowed, and he had replied begrudgingly. _To help defeat the Master_.)

“Well, well, well,” says a sultry voice as Sebille and the Red Prince collect their bowls of food from Ifan, “if it isn’t the loveliest little family _I_ have ever seen.”

Malady smiles, half-danger and half-lazy ease, one hand on her hip. She regards them with a strange sort of affection, as if she doesn’t truly believe what she’s seeing but she wants to.

“Hullo,” says Lohse, grinning. “I just finished my first dwarven plait!”

Beast laughs. “Aye, and it’s a mess. But I’m sure ‘Lene will like it.”

Aralene rises from her spot on the deck.

She stands as tall as the trees she grew up with.

There are braids and plaits and beads in her hair made by the hands of Lohse, Beast, and Sebille. The amulet that lies below her collarbone is Ifan’s, who carved it from the wood of a dead Ancestor Tree. The cloak she carries around her shoulders, intricate leaves and feathers and greatly enhancing her magical ability, was given to her by Fane.

The staff at her back properly calibrated by the Red Prince, and given a hefty blade alongside the crystal at the tip.

She towers over Malady like this.

“A ragtag bunch of overly affectionate Godwoken,” the demon chuckles. “And you’ve grown more powerful too, I see.”

Unfazed, Aralene says: “It is time to head to Arx.”

Malady looks her up and down. “Is that your secret?” she asks. “The power of friendship?”

“What if it was?” Aralene says, returning the question with a serious look on her face. “Would a god of love be so strange to the realm of Rivellon?”

Malady’s eyes widen slightly, though her expression still borders on haughty. “A god? Is that what you plan on doing?”

“If it is necessary, I will do many things to ensure their safety,” she answers. “And my own.”

Malady smiles, and there is nothing wrong about it. “You’ve found your family.”

Aralene says nothing, but moves towards the Lady Vengeance’s helm.

“Well, you’ve heard the Godwoken,” Malady grins, “we sail for Arx tonight.”

And that, they do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah. why does this game have not more fan content?? i love EVERYTHING about it, good gods.
> 
> this fic allowed me to delve a bit deeper into elven culture and its different aspects. loved what the developers did with elves in this game. anyway, aralene is a too tall, slowly speaking elf tree with arms that were made for hugging. hope you enjoyed!
> 
> come and find me [on tumblr](http://octobig.tumblr.com/)!! i take requests, including dos2 stuff.
> 
> **If you had a good time reading this, please consider clicking the kudos button! It's greatly appreciated ♥♥**


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